Stranger
by ccb51790
Summary: This short little ficlet inspired by the movie Closer is just about a man who is fascinated by a young woman who he meets for the first time and knows that she is the one.


Stranger

She walked with an air of confidence about her that enamored him. He'd been secretly observing her the whole time, captivated by her face. He wanted to know her, know everything about her; her dreams, her fears, her pains, her past…everything. She walked past him and he caught the scent of her. It was a fresh, bittersweet smell that invaded his nostrils and aroused his mind. His feet suddenly had a mind of their own as he slowly began to follow her into the next room. He stopped when he saw her. What the hell was he doing? He didn't know her; so why was he acting like a bloody love sick puppy following her wherever she went? No, he wasn't following her. Not at all. Sure, he'd been in the same room with her many times, but he'd kept his distance. He was being coy. Captivated from afar. He'd watched her as she studied each painting carefully, wondering what she was thinking; if she liked the artist's use of color, or what she saw hidden inside each brushstroke. Now he saw her pull put a cigarette and place it between her full, rosy lips. The smoke trailed out of her mouth and looked like a gray blanket as it flowed over her mouth and chin. He took a sip of champagne and the sweet, bubbly taste filled his mouth. He needed more, but he didn't want to leave her. No, he would take his eyes off of her for only a while…but his mind would never leave.

He had left the room. She could feel it. She'd been able to feel him watching her all night. She had teased him, toyed with him, made him follow her. She liked it. She wondered if he would ever approach her, how long it would take him. Until then she would remain here. God, where was she? In London; but what was she doing here? She didn't know. She did know that she wanted to start another life here. Begin anew. She wanted to get more out of her photography, to see if the people of London would like her style, her subjects, her intelligence. The US had been a piece of shit. They didn't want anything to do with her deep, sophisticated photos. All they wanted was portraits of models, sex-kittens, and porn stars. They wanted to sell fornication to the world, so it seemed. It had made her sick. Then, she disappeared and vanished to London, where she thought everything was more worthwhile. The buildings, landscapes, streets, animals, and even the people seemed more poetic and thoughtful. She would sit on a bench in Central and watch as each person would walk by and she would capture each moment with a click of her camera. For the month that she had been here, she had developed what she would call a good life. She was happy. So what the hell was she doing here, at an art exhibition? Wasting her time, that's what. No, she was learning what she was up against; almost evaluating her competition. Though what people would see in these paintings, she couldn't figure out. All she knew was… Oh god, there he was again. Maybe he would muster the courage to speak to her this time. She wondered what he would say, if he would be intelligent, or just a dumb brute. What _would_ they talk about? Would it be a quick exchange of words, or a lasting conversation? She took another puff of her cigarette, stared at the painting in front of her, and waited. Whatever he would say, she was ready for it. Bring. It. On.

It was like she was waiting for him. He came back to the room and found her, still staring at the same painting. Her back was to him, her long, sleek, dark hair fell halfway down her back. She stood tall, relaxed, and she had a cigarette in her left hand. She cocked her head sideways and transferred her weight to her left leg. He chuckled softly. She seemed charming, and he had yet to speak to her. What would he say to her? Or better yet what would _she_ say? Would she be as appealing and mundane as she seemed? Fuck it. What on bloody earth was he doing just standing there? He knew he was running out of time, that any minute she would walk away. He took another long sip of the bubbly in his hand and finally made his way over to her. He relaxed his stride and before he knew it, he was next to her. She was gazing at the painting and didn't seem to notice him. He relaxed and looked at the painting himself. And then he spoke…

"Do you like it?" he said.

"No…" she replied. He turned to look at her.

"Why not?" he asked, curious. She looked back at him, and then he noticed her eyes. They were an enchanting shade of green, and he saw that when the light hit them, he could almost see a hint of gold. Very striking; that's what she thought of him. He had a very dignified, shrewd look about him, with his pinstriped suit and strong, proud face. He was handsome. He was older, around 40 maybe. He looked like a professor or a journalist. She wondered which one it was. She'd find out soon enough.

"Do you really want to know?" she said, coolly. A smile overtook his face and he said "Of course."

She blew out a breath and then said, "It isn't real….Nothing is." Her voice sounded distant, as if she wasn't really talking to him. He wondered if there was an underlying meaning in her comment.

'What do you mean?" he asked.

"Nothing about art is real."

"You want to talk about art?" he said with a tone in his voice.

"It's vulgar…deceitful."

"Not all art is." he offered. She looked at him again, as if waiting for him to go on.

"Well, there are many forms of art." She nodded. The look on her face almost said that she knew what he would say next.

"Continue." she said.

"There's theatre, painting, music, writing, sculpting…."

"Yes and the list could go on forever." she said. She looked at him slyly.

"But it is only a list of divine illusions of the world." That comment peaked his interest. She was smart. He could hear it in her words, her comment, even in her voice.

"How is art illusory and deceitful?" She looked at him with a mischievous grin. She grabbed her bag and moved to stand in front of another painting. She offered him a cigarette.

"Want a cigarette?" she asked.

"Don't smoke." he said.

"You're lying." she said. She was right.

"No.' He grabbed the pack of cigarettes. "Yes….No…Fuck it! Yes!" She laughed at his indecisiveness. He blew out a breath and ran a hand through his light brown, almost blonde hair. "No." he said firmly, more to himself. She took the pack.

"I've given up." he explained.

"Ah." She had a look of understanding on her face. Then he noticed the painting they stood in front of.

"Why did you bring me to this painting?" he asked.

"To answer your question…Look at it." She made a gesture toward the painting with her hand. It was a strange picture. The artist chose to paint a picture of a road that…wasn't exactly a road. It was split down the middle and the right half of it was upside-down. It was an illusion.

"What is real about this? What's real about an image that an artist steals from the world, takes into his own hands, and forms on a piece of paper, displaying his interpretation of that image?" He looked at her, watched her study the painting.

"There's nothing real about that, nothing genuine. And…theatre. Theatre is just people telling tales of fictional stories, fictional realities, people, and personalities. They exhibit lives that aren't their own." She stopped and looked at him. She leaned closer and whispered, "They distribute beautiful lies…" A smile tugged at his lips. This girl was clever, witty, and she certainly knew what she was talking about.

"What about sculpting?' he offered. He decided to test her, throw that at her, surprise her. She replied without hesitation.

"Men have been lying to the world through sculptures for thousands of years." At that, a small laugh escaped his lips.  
"You really think so?"

"Of course! Take the men from the Golden Age of Athens for instance…Phidias, Myron, Praxiteles. What made their sculptures so beautiful, what did they all have in common?"

"Idealized realism."

"Yes. And what is idealized realism?"

"Displaying the body in perfect form." They said it in unison. She held up a finger.

"Ah... But nothing is perfect. So why do people find it so beautiful? Why do people think that writers who imagine the world in perfect form where everyone is happy, nothing is harder than it seems, everything goes their way…why do they find that so beautiful?"

"Fascination…" he said, more to himself that to her.

"It doesn't exist."

"Exactly."

"But we are still fascinated by it because we know it will never exist, but we still want the world to be perfect. That's why we fill the world with paintings and sculptures and stories and we surround ourselves by them to make it seem like perfection will exist through art." He looked at her thoughtfully.

"So we think it's beautiful."

"Yes…" Their eyes locked and a flicker of understanding passed between them.

"In my opinion, art is just another form of lying."  
"Is it safe to assume you don't like liars?" That made her grin.

"Yes it is, and no, I don't like liars. I hate artists, sculptors, and actors. I despise writers and poets…because they lie. It's their job."

"Is there any form of art that doesn't lie?" he asked.

"Yes…Follow me." He followed her into another exhibition room. He stopped in the doorway and watched her as she made her way to the center of the room. She twirled around to face him.

"Photography."

He looked around him and saw photographs of men, women, children playing, landscapes, buildings, and streets in London. He looked at her once again.

"Really? Why?"

"Look around you." He looked at the photographs again as he moved throughout the room. This time he looked deeper in to the pictures. He saw life, laughter, love, and intelligence. He found something new in each picture.

"You can't 'make' photos. You can't create them, mold them, sculpt them, or imagine them. They just _are_." She went to him and started to move with him past each photo. They came to the row of photos hanging from the ceiling all down the center of the room.

"Photographs capture moments in time that really existed. There's no lies, no deceit; just the truth." She started to walk along the back of the row of photos, following him. She peeked through the separation of each photo with each word she said.

"The real….brutal….genuine…honest….truth." She stopped at the end of the row, placed her hand on the picture, and spoke.

"And to me the truth is beautiful. Do you think so?"

"I'm beginning to." he said thoughtfully. After a moment of silence, she said, "You must think I'm selfish." He looked at her abruptly and saw that she had a mocking look on her face.

"Of course not."

"What do you see when you look at me?" He studied her face. She was beautiful; her youth was striking. Her face may have seemed young, innocent, and inexperienced. He saw that in her eyes was wisdom beyond her years. Although she may have looked no older than mid-twenties, the moment she spoke, anyone would think she had the mind of a woman of 40. She was a young sophist.

"I see a young, very intelligent, genuine, brave, confident woman who definitely knows what she's talking about." At that, a full laugh escaped her mouth and resonated through the walls of hismind. Her smile was sweet and illuminated her face completely. Her mood was contagious, and he couldn't help but laugh himself.

"Walk with me." he said. She did. They exited the art exhibit and came into the cool evening air. They walked down the streets of Central London and talked together about life, philosophy, aquariums, and the past. She learned that he had been married once to a stripper. Well, she used to be a stripper, but he had swept her off her feet and away from the world of sex and whores and showed her a wonderful life. She died at 30 of breast cancer. Since then, he had been alone, had seen several women just to ease the sting of loneliness. It had worked for a while, but then they just got old. So he had taken to just being alone in his big house. He liked it that way he said. He alsolearned about her past and her friends, her family, her values...and was fascinated. They walked past the Tower of London, the Kew Gardens, and the London Aquarium, which they visited for a short while. All through their conversation, he became more enchanted with her and she began to fancy him as well. He seemed honorable, successful, and honest. She liked that most about him. They walked beside a railing that overlooked the River Thames. They had been walking in comfortable silence for a while until he spoke once again.

"I take it you're a photographer." She was glad that he had finally caught on.

"Yes." she said with a smile.

"What do you photograph?"

"Portraits."  
"Of?' They approached the railing and leaned against it, looking at the river.

"Strangers, states of mind, actions, emotions, lives...everything." She looked at him. He was facing her with his elbow on the railing. It showed that he was interested and was listening. She smiled at him with her lips. She inhaled slowly and then asked, "What do you do?" He hesitated, sighed, and looked away at the river. He licked his lips and a grin overtook his face.

"I'm a writer." he said. She paused. Ironic. She looked at him and understood why he was grinning. Maybe he was testing her.

"Really?'" she asked.

"Yes."

"What do you write about?" At first, he had thought she was being polite, pretending to be interested. But she really wanted to know more about him.

"Strangers." he replied, echoing her.

"Oh. Biographies?"

"Portraits." She smiled.

"Well…" She looked away, and then back at him. "You may me the first writer I actually like."

"That's good." He chuckled.

She giggled. They were silent as they looked across the river at all the buildings and cars and people. She took this time to look at him. He was attractive, in a rugged, mysterious sort of way. His eyes held the biggest mystery. They were a lovely shade of blue she would call cerulean. She felt like if she looked in them long enough she might drown. She thought he was interesting, intriguing.

"I want to take your picture." she said, getting out her camera.

"Why?" She held the camera up to her eyes and said, "Because… you're a beautiful stranger." That made him smile. He heard her camera clicking as he continued to look at her.

"Look at the river." she said. He did so and the wind ruffled his hair, ran its fingers through each strand. She knew that would be a beautiful shot.

"Good, now face me, hands in your pockets, and look at the ground." He did and she clicked her camera.

"Look at me with you eyes." He looked at her. Click. She lowered her camera and looked back at him. The wind caught her hair and played with it. The setting sun's light made her dark hair seem almost auburn.

"Beautiful." she said. They both smiled. She raised her camera to her eye once more.

"Now talk to me." As he spoke, he heard he camera clicking.

"When won't I be a stranger to you?" he asked.

"When you tell me your name."

"Jonathan Radcliffe." She lowered her camera and smiled. Then she backed up about seven paces.

"Okay Jon." He smiled at that…the familiarity.

"Walk towards me." He had walked five paces when she told him to stop. With the camera still at her eye, she asked him, "What do you want Jon?"

"I want to know your name." At that, she lowered the camera and put it in her bag.

"Norelle. My name is Norelle Oliver."

"Norelle..." he whispered to himself. Beautiful…

"Come here." he said gently. She hesitated and looked at him. Then she slowly walked towards him. He closed the distance between them faster and walked to her. They stopped and looked at each other.

"You're beautiful." he said.

"Thank you, so are you." Up close he could she that her eyes were now almost a silver-green.

"Now that you've photographed me," he said grinning, "I think it's time I get my share."

"Your share?" she asked with a smile on her pretty face.

"I want to write about you."

"Am I worth the time?" He smiled at the question.

"Of course."

"Why do you want to write about me?" she asked.

"You're a beautiful stranger." She smiled wide. "Because you're enchanting." he continued.

"Really?"

"Fascinating… You amaze me."

"Do I?"

"You're incredible."

"How do you know?" She was testing him.

"I know you." She smiled at that.

"I thought you said you write about strangers."

"I thought you photographed strangers." She laughed at that. He was clever. It made them both smile. He chuckled and then said, "You're no stranger to me." She asked him why. "Because I know your name." She leaned back against the railing and crossed her arms over her chest. He placed his hands in his pockets and looked at her.

"What about me fascinates you?" she asked slowly. He hesitated, exhaled and walked to her.

"Your mind, your voice, your eyes, your vitality, your personality, you body…your mouth." His eyed moved to her lips. What would they feel like upon his own? He leaned closer to find out, but stopped when her small, soft hand touched his face.

"Do you not kiss strangers?" he asked. His voice had deepened and gotten softer.

"You're no stranger to me."  
"Why?" She looked into his cerulean eyes.

"Because I know your name…and I know you." A smile tugged at the corners of his lips and she smiled. He kissed her then, and felt her hand at the back of his neck, her fingers running through his hair. He placed one hand on the railing, enclosing his body over hers. His lips were the softest she'd kissed in a long time. He teased her, pleased her with his lips and mouth. She felt his other hand run up her arm, shoulder, neck, and into her hair. He kissed the corner of her mouth, he nose, her forehead, and her cheek. Then, placed his chin on her shoulder and, in turn, she nestled her head on his shoulder blade in a sweet gentle embrace. He exhaled slowly and he stood there with her for a while. They held each other, passing time. Then she whispered into his ear, "When do you start writing?" He drew away from her slightly, looked at her face, and said, "Right now." She smiled wide and he took her hand and began walking.

"What will you call it?" she asked.

He thought for a while, searched for an appropriate title. He thought of her photographs, her voice, her words, her eyes. He thought of her intelligence, her opinions, their conversations, the way she looked at him, the ways she smelled. He thought of the moment he saw her and then it came to him…the title.

"Stranger."


End file.
